Page 4 of Desperate Creed

Now he could see her edging closer.

To the shepherd, Creed said, “Don’t be afraid. You’re okay,” but this time he said it louder, hoping to include Brodie.

She had admitted she was afraid of dogs. Early on, she told Creed that her captor, a woman named Iris Malone, had sent a dog to attack Brodie once when she tried to escape. Creed had seen the scar on her ankle. The bite must have been bone-deep. There was nothing he could say to make her trust another dog. But Grace, Creed’s scrappy, little Jack Russell terrier, had come a long way in convincing Brodie that not all dogs would attack her. Creed knew this was a lesson Brodie would need to learn directly from a dog if she intended to make a home here.

The fifty-acre property was a training facility for K9 scent dogs. The kennel—with dog runs and acres of fenced-in yard—was home to dozens of dogs of all sizes and breeds. They came here from shelters; some had been dropped off at the end of their long driveway. Hannah liked to say they rescued abandoned and discarded dogs and turned them into heroes. When she told Brodie this, it seemed to make an impression. The idea of being abandoned was something she could understand.

Now suddenly, Brodie was at the edge of the swimming pool. Creed hadn’t even heard her. She had learned to be quiet all those years she’d spent trying to make herself invisible. Perhaps there was a future for her in some clandestine profession, because he hadn’t seen her approach the pool. He barely saw her now, but the dog told him she was there. His nose sniffed the air, and he was paddling to turn himself around, trying to get a good look at her. He wasn’t panicked. He was excited.

Creed kept his attention on the dog as he guided Knight to the shallow end.

“What happened to his leg?” Brodie asked as if it was perfectly normal for her to sneak out of the shadows then engage in a casual conversation.

One of the first things she had asked of her brother was to tell her the truth, always. No matter how painful he thought it might be. And, she told him she didn’t want it “sugarcoated.”

“He was a bomb sniffing dog in Afghanistan.”

“Like Rufus?”

He’d shared with Brodie how he and Rufus had worked as a team finding IEDs and clearing a path to protect units of Marines in Afghanistan. Until one day a young boy from the village brought a bomb into their camp. A bomb strapped and hidden on his small body.

Rufus had alerted, but by the time Creed made the connection, it was too late.

Creed was sent home, but Rufus’ injuries weren’t severe enough. After they patched him up, the dog was returned to service with another Marine handler. It cost Creed a favor to a man he didn’t respect, along with a vow of silence, but he got to bring Rufus back and the two were reunited. The dog still slept at the foot of Creed’s bed.

“Yes, like Rufus,” Creed told Brodie.

“But the bomb went off? He missed it?” She looked confused.

“No,” Creed corrected her. “His handler missed it.”

“Did his handler lose a leg, too?”

“His handler was killed.”

He checked her face. Her eyes were on the dog, but there was no emotion. It was one of the hardest things for Creed to accept about his sister. She displayed few feelings. Turning off her emotions had allowed Brodie to survive. But she was twenty-seven years old and after spending all of those years in isolation, he couldn’t help wondering if she’d ever be able to turn that mechanism on again.

The dog started swimming toward Brodie, anxious to meet her. Creed expected her to bolt. Or at least, move away.

To his surprise, Brodie lowered herself to the side of the pool then sat, dangling her legs over the edge. She had no fear of water and was still a good swimmer. At least there were a few things Iris Malone hadn’t stolen from her.

The dog was so anxious he’d forgotten his earlier dependency on Creed. He was paddling on his own, leaving Creed to follow. But it was obvious he was exhausted, and Brodie seemed to sense it. Almost instinctively, she slid into the pool—shoes, shorts and T-shirt. The water came to her waist. She didn’t seem to notice or care. She grabbed for the handle on the dog’s vest, and he bumped into her, grateful and ready to be helped out of the water.

Creed swam up beside them just as the dog licked Brodie’s face and was rewarded with a rare smile. He was impressed that she didn’t wince or pull back.

She noticed his surprise but instead of addressing it, she asked, “Can he walk on his own?”

“Yes, but I need to help him out of the pool. I don’t want him to slip on the steps.”

She allowed Creed to take over, relinquishing the fact that she didn’t have the upper body strength to help the dog.

“Swimming will help him build back his muscles without putting pressure on his shoulder,” he explained as he hugged the dog close to his body and walked up the stairs.

She climbed out of the pool and stood beside them. Creed handed her a towel. But he noticed Brodie kept her distance from the dog. She didn’t reach down to pet him. Instead, she awkwardly wiped her arms and legs, but didn’t wrap the towel around herself.

He looked up to the windows that ran the length of the fieldhouse. Just like in the kennel, he’d purposely designed them to be above eye-level so the dogs couldn’t see out and wouldn’t be distracted while they were training. But Creed could see the morning sunshine was being replaced by dark storm clouds. He saw a flash of lightning. Brodie noticed, too, but rather than triggering concern, it simply reminded her of something.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she said. “Hannah sent me to tell you there are storms coming, and you need to get out of the pool.”